


treblebass

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Celebrations, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Juan Carlos feels like he’s about to rip at the seams, too happy to stay confined in his body, too fucking ecstatic to look on at life the same way he used to two hours ago, when he wasn’t this person yet, when he wasn’t a champion.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	treblebass

_Spread your arms, your arms are strong,_  
 _Hold me tight, let the sweat drip,_  
 _Let my skin burst, let's go to the dance_  
 _And the world is young again._  
Svadbas, _Treblebass_

Juan Carlos feels like he’s about to rip at the seams, too happy to stay confined in his body, too fucking ecstatic to look on at life the same way he used to two hours ago, when he wasn’t this person yet, when he wasn’t _a champion_. Everyone around him is singing and whooping and he can’t stay still.

There’s Dejan, and the only thought ringing inside Juan Carlos’ head is how much of a fucking _brilliant_ idea it was to sign him up, Dejan, who has worn the white of Madrid but is now theirs, their Dejan, Barcelona’s Dejan Bodiroga, the best player in Europe wearing red-and-blue stripes, celebrating his happines in Serbian and a broken Catalan.

He sees Saras then, and the truth is that Juan Carlos is not a loud person, not at all, but this, this is too much for him and what he needs right now is to let it out; overwhelmed, as a player and a fan, as Saras walks to him he finds that he can’t stop screaming, and jumping, and laughing.

Saras is madder than him, he has a towel in his hands and as he tugs Juan Carlos in a tight hug, he wraps it as well as his arms around him; Juan Carlos is thinking in loops of _jesuschristwefuckingwonwetrulydid_ and _donotcrywhateveryoudodonotfuckingcry_ , but as Saras presses a quick, warm kiss just under his ear, everything blanks out for a second, as if struck by a lightning. Saras’ lips don’t even linger, it’s a playful and happy contact and yet, Juan Carlos shudders and laughs a bit harder, a bit more breathless, and he’s grateful for Saras’ firm body pressed against his, he’s grateful that Saras doesn’t move the hand resting on the small of his back, keeping him upright.

Saras’ other hand sneaks up around his neck and Juan Carlos, his heart frozen in glory, is happy. He can’t even believe he is sharing all this with someone like Dejan; someone like Roberto and Nacho and Rodrigo.

He can’t, he can’t fucking believe he is here with Saras. (He can’t believe that Pau is not.)

He can’t believe he’s clinging to the best point guard he has ever shared the floor with, who’s clinging back to him, — to his hips, to his back, to his presence, to the familiar, comforting curve of his neck, — and this thing he’s right in the middle of is, simply, his wildest dream; the one thing he was always almost afraid to even hope for.

He did it. And he’s twenty-three, soaked in sweat, and now he can’t wait for more.


End file.
